


The Way We Die

by fnowae



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Character Death, Dreams, Heavy Angst, It’s a doozy, Kinda, M/M, ghost au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-28 00:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14437467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fnowae/pseuds/fnowae
Summary: Patrick is dead, but he isn’t gone.





	The Way We Die

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I thought I hit peak sadness with wgd(jbc). I was a fool. 
> 
> Here’s whatever this is. Enjoy?
> 
> (Chapter two is in the works! I promise I’m actually working on continuing this one!!)

Joe wakes up from a dream he can’t remember with words on his lips that he can’t recall. For a second, he swears he can bring a face out of the images lost to his awakening, but then it’s gone again. He exhales, shuddering, wondering briefly what would happen if he did manage to call the face back after all. 

It only then occurs to him that he’s woken up for a reason - and that reason happens to be the person lightly shaking his shoulder and saying, “Joe, I know you don’t want to go, and I don’t either, but we just have to get this over with. It’s like ripping off a bandaid.”

Joe blinks, clearing his vision, and his eyes focus on Pete standing over the bed, right hand fidgeting with the end of his slightly too long suit sleeve, mouth pressed into a sad line, a dried tear trail staining his left cheek. Joe can’t say anything about Pete’s appearance, though. He’s much worse and he knows it. 

When Joe doesn’t respond, Pete goes on, “I know it’s hard. You don’t even have to do anything. Just go, come back home, and get right back into bed. Please.”

At first Joe isn’t sure what this is about, but then he registers Pete’s old suit, his own set neatly on a nearby chair, the calendar on the wall with a date - today’s - marked in black. He remembers, and wishes he hadn’t. 

He almost says he won’t go, almost tests the limits to see what he can get away with, but he thinks better of it. 

“Right,” he croaks out, his voice strained and weak. “Go. Come home. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” Pete echoes softly. “I promise.”

In fifteen minutes, Pete has coaxed Joe out of bed, helped him with his suit, and led him into the car. Joe is too busy noting everything that’s wrong to do much himself. The house is wrong - it’s too quiet, too dark, too lonely. The front lawn is wrong - it’s overgrown, hasn’t been mowed in weeks (that’s not Joe’s job, or Pete’s). The garden is wrong, too - no one has bothered to weed it (this one is Joe’s job, but he can’t bring himself to care). _Pete’s_ wrong - his tone is off, too soft for his personality, his actions are off, more gentle than Joe’s used to, his face is off, permanently tear streaked and red. Even the car is wrong - Joe takes shotgun. It’s not his seat and he knows it, but when he tries to sit in the back like he always does, Pete stops him. 

“You can sit up front, babe,” he says gently, leading Joe to the other door instead. Joe can’t bring himself to argue, even though he wants so badly to tell Pete that someone else is supposed to be sitting here. 

The drive is quiet - too quiet. Neither of them bother to turn on the radio, and neither of them bother to talk, either. It’s not worth it. The radio will only play songs that remind them of things they don’t need to be reminded of, and if they talk, their conversation will fall right back to what they’re trying so hard to avoid. 

It’s at a club, strangely, based on the general consensus that he wouldn’t have wanted it to be at a church. People stream in, more people than Joe wants to see, especially since they’ll all know him, and they’ll all ask questions he doesn’t want to answer. Pete takes him by the arm and leads him inside. Joe ducks his head, and Pete imitates the gesture, attempting to put off the inevitable recognition. 

It doesn’t work. Someone Joe’s never seen in his life appears to their right, his mouth opening to ask, “Hey, aren’t you-“

Thankfully, Pete shoots him a glare and leads Joe away from the situation. Joe focuses on surveying the room, rather than all the people who have now decided to recognize him and Pete and wear masks of pity that Joe doesn’t need to see. 

The large, open room has been transformed by rows and rows of folding chairs, and long wooden tables with refreshments along the sides. Joe decides to stare at the chairs, because if his gaze moves up, he’ll see what he knows is inevitably at the front. 

“Snacks?” Pete suggests, and Joe nods weakly. Pete wraps an arm around him and walks them both to one of the tables, loaded with a variety of chips, dips, and sodas. 

Joe eyes all of the selections. The first thing he notices is that there’s no barbecue, which seems so wrong, because if there’s anything that should be here, it’s the stupid fucking disgusting barbecue chips that _he_ would never stop eating. Joe almost gets mad, almost finds whoever planned this and tells them that this is disrespectful, that this isn’t what-

He doesn’t. He doesn’t even finish the sentence, can’t say the name, can’t think it. He scoops some salt and vinegar chips into a bowl and moves on, still pressed close to Pete. 

Joe wants so badly to be gone, or at least for everyone to stop staring. He knows who he is, he knows what he looks like, he just wishes he didn’t know that everyone else knew. The chip bowl in his hand suddenly feels heavy, unnecessary. He leaves it on the table when Pete isn’t looking. 

“Hey,” Pete says, feeling Joe shift and tense up. “How about this? We don’t even need to stay for the whole thing. We can just...say goodbye, you know? I don’t want you to have to force yourself through something so uncomfortable. P-“

“Don’t,” Joe murmurs. He knows what Pete was going to say. _He wouldn’t have wanted it either_. But he can’t hear that, can’t hear that _name_ with the god damn past tense. All of it is too much, too real. Joe doesn’t like one bit of it. 

“Five minutes. Then we’ll go,” Pete mutters, following it with a sigh. He reaches up and ruffles Joe’s hair. Joe doesn’t react, just stays there, in Pete’s arms, for as long as he can. 

The second Pete moves again, Joe knows where they’re going. Knows because Pete’s virtually made him promise to do this, knows because there’s nowhere else to go, knows because this is what people _do_ at a fucking funeral. 

“I don’t want to see this,” Joe says softly, already knowing it won’t change anything. He trains his eyes on the floor as they near it, trying to prevent the inevitable. 

“I know,” Pete replies regretfully, stopping right where Joe knew they were going, “but we have to.”

Joe can’t argue, because he knows Pete won’t let him. Instead, he forces himself to look, forces himself to do this so he can get out as soon as possible. 

Patrick doesn’t look any different. Maybe that’s worse. 

Joe can almost kid himself into thinking that Patrick’s just sleeping, that he’s decided to take a nap in a coffin with flowers and his arms crossed over his chest in that way that’s always made Joe so uncomfortable, that he’s going to get up any moment and yell “Surprise!” then spend the next few years joking about how everyone really believed he was _dead_. 

Patrick doesn’t get up, because he isn’t asleep, and Joe’s a fool to think otherwise. 

Joe doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to do something wrong, but Pete is shaking and Joe doesn’t want that so he mutters, “He hates that suit.” He doesn’t even note the present tense that slips out from his lips, doesn’t bother to correct it. As far as he’s concerned, it’s not wrong. 

Pete chuckles, Joe’s attempt at lightening the mood apparently at least partially successful. “Yeah,” he says, ever so slightly amused. “Why’d we put him in this one?”

“We didn’t,” Joe says. “I tried to talk his family out of it. You tried to stop me but I said ‘god, why would you bury him forever in a suit he despises?’ and his mom told me it was a nice suit. I told her I didn’t think that made sense.” He shakes his head. “It was rude of me, but god, Pete, none of this feels right. None of this feels like - like Patrick.” Joe almost stumbles over Patrick’s name, but gets it out, forcing himself to look back to the body in front of him, forces himself to accept reality - or at least to try. 

“He would’ve hated this,” Pete agrees, tightening his grip on Joe. “Fuck, he would’ve hated every bit of it.”

“I do too,” Joe breathes out, failing to force back the tears that cloud his vision, a perfect excuse to stop looking at Patrick’s face, which could still almost, maybe, possibly, just be sleeping. 

“We can go,” Pete tells him quietly, leaning his head into Joe’s shoulder. “We’ve said goodbye. If you’re not comfortable, I don’t see a reason to stay longer.”

Joe doesn’t think he’s said goodbye at all, but he doesn’t want to stay, either, so he takes the opportunity to get out. “Thank you,” he says gratefully. “I’d love to get out of here.”

“Then we will,” Pete assures him, straightening up and beginning to bring Joe back out the door. 

Joe catches one last glimpse of Patrick’s face, lips pressed together, face pale, eyes closed, and he hates it. Hates that this is the last he’ll ever see. Hates that he didn’t get a choice in any of this. Hates that _Patrick_ didn’t get a choice. 

He doesn’t say any more until they’re in the car again - he’s in shotgun again, as wrong as it feels, because he knows Pete would say something if he tried to sit in the back again. As they pull away, Joe tries to force back another wave of tears, but it doesn’t work. They come faster and faster until he’s choke-sobbing and Pete is giving him a concerned look. 

“Babe, what’s wrong?” he asks worriedly, flashing another anxious look to Joe before his eyes need to be back on the road. 

Joe doesn’t know what to say, because so much is wrong, so much is broken, so much is unfixable, so he just goes for the first thing that comes to mind, the very shallowest reason, and the words that tumble out are, “We’re never gonna see his eyes again.”

Pete’s mouth pulls into a thin line, and it looks like he’s trying not to cry too. Finally, he places one hand on Joe’s and nods shakily. 

“I know,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.”

///

Joe’s in Starbucks, waiting for his order. He hates that it’s taking fucking forever, because god, he just ordered his coffee black, and he _swears_ the girl who just got her hazelnut double espresso soy milk latte with foam and a drizzle of caramel ordered _after_ him. 

Finally, the woman behind the counter calls his name, and he accepts his order. But it’s only a minute before something seems wrong. 

“This isn’t mine,” he tries to call, because the marking on the side of this cup tell him he’s holding a caramel macchiato. That’s not what he orders. He knows someone who does, but - but he won’t dwell on that. 

No one seems to hear him, so he doesn’t try again. It’s not worth it. He likes caramel macchiatos well enough anyways. 

Joe turns to find a seat and stops dead in his tracks. Across the shop, seated towards the window, is a silhouette that Joe swears he knows, swears he could place anywhere, but it isn’t, because it can’t be-

Patrick turns around, looking directly at Joe. The unwanted caramel macchiato falls to the ground. Everything spins for a moment, then stops again. Joe maintains eye contact, the blue eyes he’d been so scared he’d never see again boring right into him. Patrick opens his mouth, about to say something, and then-

Joe wakes up, sweat rolling down his forehead. Pete is curled into his side, snoring. Joe shudders, unsure what to think of the remnants of that dream. 

He decides it’s best to ignore it. He goes right back to sleep.

///

Joe is in the wrong seat again. He’s given up on trying to do anything about it.

Pete has made him promise that they’ll go out once a week, at least, because “love, I get that you need time to recover, we both do, but total isolation will only make it worse.” He’s right and Joe knows it, but he still spends the drive looking pointedly away from Pete, and out the window instead, watching the houses roll by as they drive along the road. 

“Coffee?” Pete suggests, though he’s already pulling the car over, so Joe knows it’s a question he doesn’t get to pick the answer to. 

“Then home?” Joe asks, hoping to reduce the time he has to be seen in public as such a mess - to reduce the time he has to be in public in the first place. 

“Then home,” Pete agrees. “I’ll make lunch? Pasta?”

“That sounds great,” Joe mutters, though really, it doesn’t, because Pete isn’t the one who usually cooks, and it only serves as a reminder that another role has been vacated and needs to be filled. 

Joe follows Pete out of the car, head pointed towards the ground, hands shoved into his pockets. He just wants to get this over with, get back home, and continue to fail to deal with the situation. 

Pete orders for both of them, getting Joe’s plain black coffee and his own mocha. Joe is spacing out, and Pete sort of has to push him to the pickup counter because he isn’t paying full attention - but, to be fair, his mind is elsewhere, on the fragments of his dream, on Patrick’s lifeless face, on the concept that one day he’s really going to have to accept this. 

“Here.” Pete presses a warm cup into Joe’s hand. 

“Thanks,” Joe mumbles, pressing the cup to his lips and taking a tiny sip. 

He nearly chokes.

“Pete,” he says, eyeing the cup with concern, “this isn’t my order.”

Pete frowns, peering at the label on the side of Joe’s cup. “Yeah, it is. It’s got your name on it and it says regular coffee. You okay?”

“No, no, it’s not,” Joe insists, holding the coffee out to Pete. “Try it.”

Pete looks concerned, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets Joe hand him the drink. Pete takes a slow sip, and his eyes widen. 

“Oh,” he says, pressing the caramel macchiato back into Joe’s hands, “that’s...odd.” 

Joe is hit by a sudden sense of dread, and he slowly pivots to face the rest of the shop, to which he hadn’t paid much attention on the way in. And he knows it immediately. This is the Starbucks from his dream last night. His grip on his cup tightens. 

His eyes automatically go to the window seats, really expecting to see Patrick there again, but he doesn’t. No one is sitting there. There’s no silhouette, not even a half finished coffee left sitting to indicate someone had grabbed a seat and run to get something, so please don’t take their spot. And of course there isn’t anyone. So what, the barista made a coincidental screwup, that’s fine. Nothing is wrong. Joe just had a dream and he’s drawing parallels that aren’t there. 

Behind him, Joe distantly hears Pete say, “I’m sorry, I think you gave my boyfriend the wrong order, he asked for a black coffee and he got a macchiato?”, and the barista responds, “What? No, I swear I put just regular in that cup. Are you sure?” Joe chooses to ignore it. 

Joe turns back to Pete, shaking off his discomfort and saying, “Pete, it’s okay, I’ll still drink it. Let’s go home and make that pasta.”

Pete turns to him, looking a little unsure, like he really wanted to fight for his boyfriend’s coffee order or something, but he deflates, sighing. “Okay. That sounds great, babe.” 

Pete doesn’t sound like he thinks that sounds great at all, but really, Joe doesn’t think it does either.

///

The full moon reflects on the surface of the lake, and Joe dips his feet in off the edge of the dock, kicking them a little so the cold water ripples out into the distance. The moonlight’s image on the surface shivers, then stills. Joe kicks again. 

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stands up, and something creaks on the dock behind him. Joe knows what he’ll see there before he even turns around. 

Patrick is standing behind him, at the far end of the dock, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed. He’s wearing the suit from the funeral, the one he hates, but he’s barefoot, tapping one foot rhythmically on the rotted wood of the dock. He looks impatient. Joe wonders if he’s supposed to say something. 

Finally, Patrick’s mouth opens, but this time, Joe doesn’t wake up before he speaks. 

“Stop fucking doing this,” Patrick grits out, taking a step closer. The old wood creaks again. 

“What?” Joe blurts out, trying to get over the shock of hearing Patrick’s voice again enough to attempt to figure out what the hell that’s supposed to mean. 

Another step, another creak. “Fucking _hell_ , Joe, _please_.”

Joe pushes himself back, turns around, eyes still trained on Patrick as he clambers to his feet, water dripping off his legs and onto the dock beneath him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Step. Creak. “Fucking let me go!” 

“What?” Joe repeats, almost making the mistake of taking a step back, right off the edge, when Patrick advances again, closing the distance between them to two more steps. 

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Patrick says through clenched teeth. His arms uncross and fall to balled fists at his side. _Step, creak._ “I’m gone! I’m _supposed_ to be gone!”

Patrick is less than a foot from Joe now, so close that Joe can feel Patrick’s breath on his face. It’s freezing. The two of them hold eye contact for what feels like forever, and it occurs to Joe that he’s supposed to say something. 

“Patrick,” he says quietly, carefully, “I don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

“What’s going on,” Patrick hisses, _stepcreak_ , the gap between them down to nothing, Patrick’s chest almost pressing into Joe’s, the lack of up and down movement both disturbing and contradictory to the cold air Joe feels blowing on his face, “is that you need to fucking let me _go_!”

Joe doesn’t have time to register Patrick’s hands - also freezing - on his chest before he’s in the air over the lake, thrown off the dock by a surprising amount of force. For a fraction of a second, he’s in midair, and all he can see is Patrick’s livid expression. Then he hits the surface of the ice cold water, and sits straight up in bed. 

Joe shudders, eyes wide, trying to untangle the meaning of whatever the hell he’s just experienced. He’s so busy trying to explain Patrick’s words that he doesn’t register why he’s shivering so hard until Pete moves a little in bed and mumbles, “Jesus, honey, did you take a fucking shower just now?”

“Huh?” Joe’s gaze snaps to Pete, then to himself, and he realizes why Pete had asked that. Joe is soaked head to toe, dripping icy water onto the bedsheets. He gapes down at himself, trying to find some other explanation for this, something other than that fucking dream. 

He can’t. 

“I’m gonna go...dry off,” Joe says weakly, not bothering to add an explanation or an answer to Pete’s question. 

“Okay,” Pete mumbles, and Joe gets the impression he wasn’t fully awake in the first place. 

Joe climbs out of bed, grabbing fresh clothes from the closet and heading into the adjoining bathroom. He peels his clothes that are soaked off, dries off with a fluffy blue towel, then pulls fresh pants on. He’s about to shrug on a shirt as well, but then he catches a glimpse of the bathroom mirror. 

He’s still damp, but that’s not a surprise, not really important. What is a surprise, what _is_ important, is that on Joe’s chest are two perfect red handprint-shaped marks. 

Joe stares at them for another minute before deciding that ignorance is bliss. He pulls his shirt on and goes right back to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> if you liked this, I always appreciate comments, they make my day :)
> 
> if you wanna talk abt this or anything else, hmu on tumblr! I’m at @americanmade right now 
> 
> thank you!!


End file.
